


the knights of new york

by London_The_Loser



Series: Dream SMP x Marvel [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Fighting, I DONT MAKE THE RULES, Kinda?, Living Together, M/M, Mild Angst, Other, Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Protective GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Protectiveness, Sharing a Bed, Superheroes, Superpowers, Touch-Starved, fairly touch starved, idk - Freeform, kaine does, man they're all touch starved, uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/London_The_Loser/pseuds/London_The_Loser
Summary: [with practiced speed, he redrew the italian styled long sword tucked in it's sheath and joined his partner in a memorized dance of forward and back, over and under, swipe and shoot.]if i never update this, i'm so sorry.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Dream SMP x Marvel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020103
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this took quite a lot of world building and planning from me and one of my close friends, we've definitely put a shit ton of effort into it. i'm sorry if my writing style is inconsistent and this story drops off the face of the earth, but if you enjoyed it please make sure and tell me. i'd love to know what people thing :)

==PROLOGUE==

there was an ache in his neck, a sore spot in his calf muscle, roughly 6 inches of bruising on his left ribs, one cut on his lip, and another on his eyebrow. 

there was also a bullet would in his shoulder. which was fine. 

a vaguely squishy sound followed by the impact of dropping bodies sounded from behind the wall dream was taking cover behind. he could hear muffled curses and soft giggles, vaguely sadistic but undoubtedly menacing. dream cracked a toothy grin, wincing slightly as he twisted his body to glance around the bricked corner, cheek scratching softly against the rough surface. he nuzzled just slightly into the sensation, attempting to stimulate any part of him that wasn't the throbbing burn in his right shoulder. why did it have to be his right? his left hand swordsmanship was borderline deficient compared to his right. he'd just have to make due, his mother didn't insist on duel wielding just for the fun of it (although it was quite a bit of fun). 

"are you going to stand there and force me to be my own damn backup?" 

dream grunted quietly, rolling his eyes under the porcelain mask that covered his face.   
  
  


"of course you'd think _i'm_ the backup." dream threw back, wincing when a particular violent 'crack' reverberated around the small alley they were packed into. 

"of course you're backup. and you're doing a piss poor job at it." 

with that, dream took one final steadying breath before sidestepping into the direct line of fire, lunging to the side almost immediately when a smoking bullet whizzed in his general direction. with practiced speed, he redrew the italian styled long sword tucked in it's sheath and joined his partner in a memorized dance of forward and back, over and under, swipe and shoot. dream could feel the heat of another man dangerously close to his left foot, a hand grabbed his injured shoulder and _yanking._ it took all 10 years of training to swallow down the violent cry that bit at his throat, but of course he managed. he always did. 

both dream and george had went over maneuvers that were useful in hand to hand combat when the other was easily accessible, so it took roughly 2 seconds of thinking before dream was reaching a hand behind his shoulder and wrapping fingers around a feathery arrow, whipping his arm back around just in time to land the sharp end of the projectile into his enemies thigh. the goon quite obviously did not have the same restraint as dream himself, a pained bellow splitting the noises of battle in two. none of his comrades before had made such an animal of themselves. how embarrassing for him, dream thought bitterly. a coward on stilts was the easiest to beat, all it took was one sweep at their feet and they came tumbling down from the pedestal they placed themselves on. 

they spun around each other for a few more moments, the adrenaline of battle surging through their movements, keeping them standing after hours of grueling activity. it had been a long night, the streets of lower manhattan crowded with more vermin than usual, even for a city like this. the ache in his bones was always worth it when he saw the relieved breaths of men and women in darkened alleys, children in empty buildings. sometimes, it was even the painful cries of the men they worked to dismantle, the men who exploited from the suffering of those who got less than they deserved. 

by the time the rest of the drug cartel had found tonight's resting place on the floor by their feet, dream and george's breathing was labored, muscles cramping awkwardly and hands gripping weapons tightly. his shoulder throbbed, fiery hot and bloody. he pushed the pain away, saving it for the long process of healing. dream pulled a bottle of spray paint from his cloak, tossing it in the air with a flip before catching it and messily painting a lopsided smiley face on the nearest wall. they would mark their prey and smile giddily at the front page article their efforts had earned. 

'the fletcher', george had been called in recent articles. the fletcher and dream, knights of new york. it was ridiculous, really. to have a gimmick like other frilly heroes. at least he wasn't 'iron man', 'the hulk', or 'captain america'. his reputation was built in the shadow's of the city, where it was needed most. not in shiny towers or flashy cars. not in fancy metal suits or technology that was harvested from money hardly earned, more akin to stolen. dream and george had a gimmick, but at least their gimmick wasn't raw and envied power. dream respected the avengers for the sacrifices they made, of course. that didn't mean he thought them better than anybody else.

dream wondered if tony stark was nothing but a man on stilts. what a disappointing thing, life was. he wouldn't be surprised. 

of course, george didn't appreciate their 'gimmick' much at all. the first time the news made george out to be fixated on european culture and it's war decoration, he had yanked dream's spray paint bottle and wrote " _my armour was crafted from the hands of men greater than any in this polluted hell-scape of a nation, you daft prick"_ on the largest wall in the building. an image of his friendly note had shown up in the paper the next day. the message was received, although somewhat reluctantly. 

dream tucked his spray paint back into his cloak, turning away from his signature to lean on the wall instead. there was a fatigue setting into his lungs, one that would make the trip home long and uncomfortable. it only took george a couple seconds before he was joining dream, both of them letting their eyes slip shut for a few moments. 

"do you think we're doing the right thing, clay?" 

dream peeled his eyelids open, staring tiredly at the shapes of fallen men in front of them.

"we chose a side to defend, george. betrayal is not within the blood of the british." dream said quietly, adorning a tacky english accent through the last part. 

george giggled softly, shifting just slightly to gaze fondly at dream. 

"i'm the only one here that's british, you prick. betrayal seems to be in the blood of the american."

there was nervousness in his voice. vulnerability came with the steady drop from the high of battle. home was so far away, tonight. it was a long walk back.

"my blood doesn't belong to this country, gogy. i only bleed for the people i can't help but care about." 

dream felt the weight of george's head on his shoulder. he barely noticed the burn of his wound.

home was far away, but of course they made their way back to it. 


	2. Chapter 2

there was an influx of kidnapping's from the upper east side. dream had caught the string of disappearances and george had easily managed to filter through encryptions and unsavory websites in the corner's of the internet to pin three solid names on their hit board. 

goran russel

nevil brendan

lessie reannon

the upper east side wasn't their hunting grounds, not by a long shot. from their knowledge, the area belonged to luke cage and hawkeye. dream respected boundaries, even more so for territorials. he hasn't have the pleasure to meet cage or barton, but it wasn't difficult to keep to yourself under the assumption that others might just bite if you get too close. they decided a long time ago that hell's kitchen and the rest of midtown belonged to the avengers and daredevil alike. it wasn't uncommon to see jessica jones prowling on apartment fire escapes or hawkeye perched on rooftop's, the both of them enjoyed stalking their prey as much as the rest of them. manhattan was crawling with vigilante's, mercenaries, and spies alike. dream and george rarely concerned themselves with the happening's of other territory, the men and women who protected each neighborhood all had a strong responsibility for the area itself. 

of course, it had been just short of two weeks and more than twelve children had been reported missing from the upper east side and harlem. they each had their reluctances, neither in favor of finding themselves on the wrong side of a super's good graces. george had spent hours researching the lead, reading each missing report with necessary precision, digging up everything he could on the families of each victim and the victim's life prior to abduction. an entirely separate task was finding what limited information there was on their confirmed target's, a much more difficult task.

and while george worked, dream flipped from rooftop to rooftop in the targeted neighborhood. it was easy enough to avoid people, super or not, years of gymnastics and parkour training left him swinging with practiced ease. stealth patrols were done without his signature white mask and hooded cloak, as dream opted for a dark hoodie and inky black face plate. night's like these were pleasant, adrenaline from flying and falling and landing, the thrill of staying hidden. although, the upper east side remained eerily quiet through dream's patrols, the man only dropping into alley's once or twice, breaking up small altercations and one particularly nasty drug deal gone wrong. 

they continued their efforts for roughly three days, george taking note of anything useful and dream meticulously cataloging the atmosphere that seemed to be tilting off kilter more and more as time went by. 

at the end of their planning period, three significant thing's had happened. 

one, george had found that each victim had, at some point or another, come into contact with the same man. or at least- a different version of the same man. what took hours of digging revealed the slimy bitch had 15 different aliases and 5 false ID's, popping up in these kid's lives as a check at a restaurant they frequented, a stand in coach for their community baseball team, a homeless man that had checked into a shelter nearby. dream had never quite seen organized kidnapping's planned and hidden this precisely. 

two, one of the missing children- who fits all of the same requirements that would fit under the time frame and certain signatures of this string of kidnapping, is no longer missing. the kid was just about two years younger than dream, and five years younger than george. nicholas ashton, 16 years old with no current school record. what was most interest, however, was both the fact that his biological parents were still alive but have obviously chosen to abstain from being present, and the three separate charges of second degree arson. the details for these charges, unfortunately, were so goddamn encrypted that george couldn't even get the same of the accuser or the juvie sentence attached. 

and finally, three. dream ran into a horribly unhappy clint barton, who is now unfortunately in their makeshift household. 

it really, _really,_ wasn't pleasant. 

"so ya really thought that you, an 18 year old amateur, could slip past a government appointed assassin and literal avenger?"

"for hell's sake, he's been crawling around the upper east side for three days, get your head out of your ass." 

dream was sitting cross legged on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin resting on his palms. the _government appointed assassin and literal avenger_ had very gracelessly fallen through their bedroom window at 2am on a tuesday. today was going to be shit. 

"and why the hell are you british?" hawkeye accused, looking legitimately pressed that a british man had found his way into the great country of america.

if dream felt like talking he'd think to ask george if someone could get brain damage from rolling their eyes enough, and if so, george should seriously consider going to a doctor. the brunet took a rather long second to take a steadying breath and rub at his temped for dramatic effect. 

"how is it that you, 23 years my senior, are probably the most ignorant twit i've ever goddamn met?" to which dream smoothly replied "they're avengers, luv. what else would they be if not ignorant?"  
  


barton let out an angry huff, obviously not really taking kindly to the verbal abuse. 

"i'll have you know that we're the fucking reason new york into enslaved by alien's, _knights of new york._ " he spit their makeshift title out like an insult, which in all honesty, was valid. dream didn't much like it either. like he had said, gimmicks weren't his vibe at all. 

"and i'll have _you_ know that the only reason new york was even considered a target was because you keep a hammer wielding dumbass with a god complex inside your tacky-as-all-hell tower!" 

"i don't speak british!" barton yelled, obviously getting tired of the irrelevant argument. either that or he was just an idiot. "now, for fuck's sake, _why_ was smiley ass bitch doing backflips down four stories on the upper east side, following _my_ target-" 

target? _his target_ _?_

"wait- wait hold the fuck up. are you saying that a 16 year old kid on the street's is your _target?_ didn't realize your owners let bite at children, now." dream snapped, put off by the idea of an avenger, a hero of new york, jumping across rooftops to keep track of the 16 year old kid he was about to kill. 

"listen- whatever you think he is, he's not. he can't just be wandering around manhattan lighting shit on fire."

george quickly perked up, glancing knowingly at his partner, who easily returned the look. almost unnoticeably, dream started tapping out a quick series of patterns on his cheek. george made sure to look over at the movement every 1, 3, 4, and 2 seconds, cataloguing the tapping. while the two continued to communicate, they vaguely heard clint continue on with his rant. dream could honestly see himself enjoying the presence of the older man, his words tinted with crude insults and hints of humor. he thought about it a lot, if in some different universe he had idolized the avengers just like everyone else. if he continued to live without knowing that he had an energy tearing at his muscles, propelling him forward. if he never met george. would thing's have been better? would the lack of scars and nightmares and exhausting nights be worth it? 

"what the hell are you saying?"

dream stiffened, his subconscious tapping stilling immediately. he was only half way through the letter-number pairs that specified the next plan of action. (-(T-NB-2-, 'threat: enderman, neutral mob, avoid direct contact and triggers, do not engage', P-4, 'invisibility potion, stealth mission', A-NB-1-, 'target: wolf, neutral mob, bring method of persuasion, do not engage, dangerous') 

"what?" george asked, posture easily sliding into a more balanced stance, fingers twitching nervously where they rested next to his sheathed dagger. 

"the one with the mask, what are you saying? it doesn't make sense. it's not morse. i don't know anyone who makes their own goddamn codes other than government officials or fuckin' supervillains." clint snapped, rather hostile. his stance was faux casual, but dream and george automatically noticed the subtle flick of his wrist as he hit some kind of pressure plate or button on the palm of his wrist. maybe a recording device? possibly an alert system. if it did somehow send a signal to tony stark or the avengers in general, dream was going to have a bitch fit. his head was already pounding, and he couldn't find it within himself to appreciate a visit from the superheroes of america. if tin can man smashed into their apartment from the window, he would simply quit. george could find some other teenager with ninja training a good looks (not that george thought he looked good). 

"for the love of god, please stop doing that _thing._ i'm starting to understand why tony gets so pissed when me and nat do the whole 'telepathy thing'. its like i'm third wheeling, jesus."

dream snickered, easily catching the fact that hawkeye just compared himself and black widow with a teenager and a 21 year old who started the whole hero thing two years ago. they had worked hard for where they were and the reputation they had built for themselves, both dream and george hosting playful competitions to hack smaller companies to buff up their skills (george always won). they spent hours every week at target practice and sparring, dream insisting that even george needed to know how to aim and fire a gun. so really, it wasn't like dream doubted their skills matched those of the avengers. it was simply the fact that an avenger himself was beginning to think of them as hot shit. something to pay attention to. something to feel threatened by. 

"why is nicholas ashton your target?" george cut in easily, not really one for getting off topic. 

barton huffed. 

"and you weren't even listening! wonderful. i swear, kid's these days are the most disrespectful brats-"

"no offense, mr. barton, but both my skills and my weapon exceed however far 30 years of training has gotten you."

"this is what i'm saying!" even though the man's words were aggressive, both george and dream could understand the humor in them. the tension lessened quickly, but it wouldn't be gone for long. 

"and what _we're_ saying is unfortunately something that you don't get the pleasure of understanding. now, what do you want with nicholas ashton?" 

clint simply groaned ( _again._ jesus this guy didn't like the youth of the world. ironic for someone with kids, was it not?), throwing his head back childishly. 

"you do realize i'm like, working for the government? how the hell do you expect me to just tell you things?"

dream threw a dark look at george. george quirked his eyebrow. dream furrowed his own. george tilted his head, just slightly towards his quiver. dream squinted his left eye. george smiled just the smallest bit. 

"goddamnit _,_ will you two _shut up_!" 

against dream's better judgment, he gave a soft snort, followed by quiet huff from george. apparently they could shut up during torture but as soon as they piss off an adult, they can't keep quiet. pretty in-character, honestly. dream flicked his eyes back to barton, dropping his hand from under his chin and wrapping it around the ankle tucked up under his leg.

holding vaguely intense eye contact with george, dream yanked his ankle out from under himself. 

like clockwork, george was lunging towards the man in their apartment, stopping just close enough to sweep his own ankle under hawkeye's, and using all his bodily force drag his leg around with his body in swift half circle. the heavily planted foot was thrown out from under barton easily, george's own coming to a graceful point at his side as he raised his arm towards the doorway into the kitchen. dream, of course, was no longer in his curled up position on the couch, and was instead returning quickly from the other side of the apartment. in his hand, and then in george's, was an arrow with a mossy green tip, shining dangerously in the dim lighting. the whole exchange came to a complete stop in roughly 3 seconds, dream crouching down and placing his knee just below the wheezing man's windpipe. 

it wasn't necessarily that barton was weak, or even worse at combat than them. it was simply the fact that nobody quite knew the extent of dream and george's powers, as well as the extent of their team combat skills. they pride themselves on fluidly moving around each other with so much confidence and sureness that one might assume they could read each other's battle crazed thoughts. barton had made the unfortunately mistake to come alone, or at least arrive alone. 

george found a spot on the other side of barton, stabbing the arrow into his shoulder without a second thought. dream knew the plasticity was fake, knew he would think about the next couple minutes for nights to come. he just hoped that the whiplash from poison tipped arrows wasn't as bad as it was on the last enemy they had encountered, he personally had nothing against clint barton himself. 

he did, however, have everything against hunting kids like they were fair game. 

"you really should've just told us, birdy. fletcher doesn't like vomit on his carpet," dream crooned, cocking his head playfully. slipping into a frequently exercised persona was easy, even fun at times. while he found no pleasure in hurting respectable men, he found pleasure in hurting child murderers. "now, we're willing to speak your language if you're willing to listen." dream made sure to look up at george just long enough for the man to see the softness in his eyes, unwilling to let the older believe he was changing into something darker. the other seemed to relax slightly, so dream turned his attention back to the man under him, leaning down far enough for his breath to catch on the shell of the barton's ear. " _what do you want with nicholas ashton._ "

leaning back slightly, dream assessed the sporadic tensing and releasing of the heroes muscles, the conscious effort to keep his face from twisting up in a pained grimace. the arrow itself was tipped with a rather mild spell compared to one they might use on a criminal, but it did the trick. it would take roughly a week for barton to return to full health, a mix of different unsavory side effects coming with the poison. but for now, burning, mind numbing pain was probably swimming through his blood stream, digging into his muscles and tightening his lungs until his breaths came in shortened heaves and gasps. the pair never enjoyed seeing the process take place. it was something similar to watching a man drown and burn all at once. 

"you might not be able to talk now, but by the time the pain dwindles and you've stopped soiling the carpet with sick, please consider your options. give us the specifics of his enhancements or you can enjoy the variety of spells i happen to collect." 

as if to prove a point, george slowly twisted the arrow head out of barton's arm before tapping it softly against the bow that seemingly materialized in his grip, the tip of the projectile flaring a bright yellow before paling and finding itself a dark maroon color. 

"we've never quite understood this one, actually. all we knew was that it hurts, and leaves you feeling like you might've gotten run over. i'm sure your science friends would love to figure it out once we drop you onto their balcony. _or,_ you could give us what we need. how does that sound?" 

the spasms wracking barton's body were beginning to die down, violent shivers and the occasional sharp inhale being the few signs of distress. throughout the swift lecture from the two above him his eyes had been clenched shut. possibly a subconscious defense or mechanism to keep the worst of the pain at bay. however, at just about the two minute mark, his eyelids slowly lifted, pupils flicking from the ceiling, to dream, and then to george. 

it was silence for a moment, suffocating tension and barely noticeable unease. barton coughed once, twice, licked his lips quickly. 

"you are probably the shittiest teenagers i've ever met."

"i'm 21."

barton huffed, wincing after doing so at the wave of pain that came with the movement. his head lolled tiredly on the floor to glance at the arrow that george held casually between his long fingers. 

"you gunna fuckin' stab me again?"

george grinned, although dream could tell it was hallow. he think's barton could tell too. "oh, most definitely."

unexpectedly, there was something dangerously soft in barton's face. like pity but... not. it didn't wash out dream's insides with a gross burn, shameful and sticky as anything. the older man sighed and turned his attention back towards the ceiling. "starting early, you two? never really liked the whole child soldier concept-"

"-neither of us are children-"

"-you were."

it was quiet for another moment. dream was trying not to feel guilty. he knew george was trying too. it wasn't working. 

"listen. the kid's got uh. magma hands. lava or some shit. it spews everywhere, sits around for a couple hours. it's hot, and sticky and messy to clean up. but hey-! you can't fucking tell tony i let that slip. oh god he's gunna kill me. please don't stab me with the threatening purple one, i'm already gunna be out of commission for a whole ass week and he's gunna have to call back nat to replace me on this, but i'm sure you'll already have the kid by then, please tell me you can get the kid by then. because you've obviously done me in pretty well but that's because i'm like a dad or whatever, really out of practice. natasha? not even. she could probably snap both of you in half-"

"please remind me to never stab you again."

barton whipped his head around to glare at dream, who was amusingly still pinning the older man down with his knee. 

"never stab me again." he deadpanned. 

dream grinned. 

"i swear on my heart, clint barton, that we will never stab you again." 

as soon as barton could stand up on his own, dream was shoving him out the front door, his hand's strained behind his back with spare zipties in dream's pocket. they all knew the man would make it home just fine, having lived through much worse than anything dream and george could put him through. by the time dream and george were falling back onto the bed in the only bedroom in their shitty apartment, dream was already melting against the pillow. but he couldn't go to sleep. not until he knew george was going to sleep with him. 

sure enough, it took 26 minutes for george to roll over from his place facing the wall and onto his back, staring into the dark space above him until he willed up the courage to speak. 

"you think it'll keep him up too?'

dream lifted his hand off his chest and slid it across the gap between their two bodies, grabbing george's own and curling his fingers between his friend's. his heart stuttered gently but he shoved the butterflies down. 

"it's nothing he hasn't been through before, george."

cold fingers tightened around his own. 

"that doesn't mean he should go through it again."

dream huffed, turning one last time to face the boy next to him, there was a bit of rustling before george was doing the same. 

"he has people for that. we have people for that. the kid that's being targeted by multiple private corporations and organized crime groups doesn't have anyone to make it hurt less. he's the priority. it's him and then it's the kids that've gone missing. _they_ need us george. and barton isn't going to care if his suffering brings home 13 kids." dream said softly, bringing their hands up to his chest. 

george sniffled softly, and dream let go of his hand to tug the older forward and against him, tucking brunet hair under his chin and wrapping his arms tightly around the other. george shoved his face further into dream's chest, shaking softly in between almost silent sobs. dream tried to relax around the older, tried to forget what it felt like to be scared, to be guilty and disgusted and hurt. his eyes drifted slowly towards the set of preclean masks hanging on the wall, different styles and shades. emotions were a fickle thing. violent and unyielding, the reason that the world was painted in color and song, the reason the world was crumbling around them. dream had nothing against feeling. nothing against happiness and sadness and anger. 

but tonight, with george pulled close to his lungs, dream couldn't help but remember what if felt like to love, to care for someone. what if felt like to need someone as much as they needed you. dream hated that he was beginning to need the boy tucked inside his warmth. 


End file.
